


Spit them out

by Sedusa



Series: Be More Chill one-shots [4]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: M/M, Multi, Trans Rich Goranski, Transphobia, implied ot3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15667263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedusa/pseuds/Sedusa
Summary: The third was too small and too hidden, but her hands look perfectly manicured. “It’s frustrating, how common this has become. As if a man in a dress knows how I feel.”The tips of Michael’s ears burnt like hot lead, and he thought briefly of Jake’s house, collapsing in on itself. Beside him, Jeremy stiffened, but Rich had no reaction.Fuck. Fuck.





	Spit them out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanceypants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/gifts).



> Fuck TERFs.

Wanting to be in a group was a weird sensation.

Not a bad one--great, in fact. Just… rare. He wasn’t sure if Jeremy was always an introvert, but Michael had always preferred a small, tight knit gathering to a loud and boisterous affair.

Boisterous. That made him sound like his mom. Funny--both of Michaels’ parents were extremely charismatic extroverts. They used to pull him along for rides to far away places with too much stimulation and too many people. Maybe that was why he always felt so tired of crowds, and so  _ over _ the idea of a uniform society, of set rules and limitations you needed to adhere to to “fit in”. He did just fine alone, with Jeremy--and later, Rich--the only exceptions.

That was probably why it was so hard to feel a strong connection to his ethnicity. His parents treated EVERY culture as importantly as the ones they were born into--which is to say, they would focus on something for a year (at the most), completely comb through and consume every aspect, and move on. Hell, they only consistently celebrated the “traditional American” holidays, like a non-denominational Christmas full of Santa Claus and reindeer and good ol fashioned consumerism, for Michael’s sake. And that wasn’t a bad thing, but it meant Michael just didn’t feel compelled to “go back to his roots”. He related to other PoC and racism struggles because he certainly wasn’t white, but he had no real sense of identity there.

But that didn’t mean Michael rejected the idea of community altogether, or of building a safer environment around himself. Usually it translated to subtle things, like voting in every election (whether it be presidential or prom), but when it came to his identity as queer, he actually wanted some…  _ more _ .

The only real detriment in the past had been disorganization. The ways locals talked online (the hell of craigslist community sections, mostly, which Michael never had the courage to post on), it seemed most of the scene just happened to… know each other. You had to socialize with the right people. He wasn’t  _ entirely _ opposed to the idea, but he was underage, and… well, that was it, really. Young, and shy. 

He was still kinda shy, admittedly, but it helped to have people he could drag into it--and, even better, a new and convenient place to start. 

The local community college only had two small campuses (one on either end of town, East and West), mostly because the ones upstate usually stole the show. Despite that, it was a pretty good school, with the handful of classes they offered generally well liked. They also had a relatively active student body--lots of clubs, both exclusive and open to the public, set up shop in the empty classrooms after hours. The atmosphere would seem to physically shift then, as the academic body was replaced by community leaders, union forces, and various vagabonds.

The GSA club was located at West campus, the closest to Michael’s house. In fact, it was just about a 5 minute drive. Kinda felt like destiny, in a way. 

(Or maybe that was just the butterflies in his stomach. No matter how many times he told himself this would go well, he couldn’t help the nauseous, unfamiliar sensation of social-specific anxiety. How did Jeremy put up with this all the time?)

Michael combed his hair for the third time in half an hour, as he paced in front of the main entrance, everything around him a washed-out purple from dusk fading to night. Five minutes til the club doors open. He thought getting some air outside would help still his nerves, but instead, he felt an agitated energy buzzing at the tips of his fingers and on the bottom of his heels. Jeremy sat on the lawn, legs folded under him, while Rich leaned casually against the wall.

Michael stopped as he got a sudden, nauseating thought. “Do you think we were supposed to bring something?”

“I doubt it,” Rich replied, his tone aloof but gentle. “If they wanted anything, they’d’ve asked in the email. And hey, if they do, there’s a convenience store right down the road.”

“Yeah, but--” his mind seemed to be scrambling for a reason this wouldn’t go well. God, this was exhausting, “--what if they need, like, paperwork or something?”

Jeremy spoke up this time. “You have your ID. And, I mean. You have mail, and, uh, everything else, in the glove box, I think.”

Right. Of course. He didn’t even think of that. Another comb through his hair, this time a more deliberate act to calm himself. Logically, he knew his bases were covered. Michael wasn’t obsessive, but he knew how to plan. There’s only so many things that were likely to go wrong, most of them someone else’s fault, and he had already been over it that afternoon. Several hours ago.

His watch, a crudely painted Pac-man knock-off from Wish, gave a single  _ beep! _ to signal his five minutes had passed. He took a deep breath in, held it, and then let go. Alright. It’s time.

The room was long; some sort of conference area, with two ivory tables connected one end to the other. The people he saw were a… strangely normal looking bunch. It threw him off; left him silent as he scrambled to find an open chair with two others free on each side. 

Embarrassment quickly set in that his expectations so clearly reflected a “queer as other” narrative--which, maybe he was too hard on himself for, but… he realized he hadn’t ever consider what he thought the group would actually  _ look _ like rather then  _ feel _ . Why was that? Jesus.

Rich, and then Jeremy, trailed behind, taking their places. The trio seemed to end up right in the middle of it all, at the intersection of the tables, which was another unexpected stressor. Michael felt immediately obligated to be On for this, even though they’d intended to observe today--to just get a feel for this. This left him further on edge; under the table, he found his way to Rich’s hand, squeezing it tightly for reassurance. Rich squeezed back, but didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, a woman, dressed in white to match her porcelain skin, got up and closed the doors. She seemed to be the leader, as she spoke first. “Hi, everyone!” 

A murmur of greetings answered her. “This is only our third meeting, and we seemed to have doubled in size. That’s awesome!” Polite claps here. “Now, for those unfamiliar, the first half hour is dedicated to mingling, followed by another for community issues...”

She went on for a bit, the schedule followed by group rules (don’t harass people, don’t out people, basically), and closed off with a “get to know your peers!”

Chatting began immediately. Although she seemed to want people to talk outside their inner-circles, that was, naturally, what happened anyway--not that Michael was any better, sitting in silence between people he brought as buffer.

_ … stop. You’re in a safe place. Why are you so on edge? The last time you tried, you were a child. Of course it didn’t go well. You have Rich and Jeremy now. Why is your heart beating so hard? Breathe. This is stupid. You’re acting stupid. What are you expecting? What’s the worst that can happen? Why can’t you just-- _

“I can’t believe he thought we’d let him in!”

A cackle. He glanced over.

Four girls, at the front of the table, their talking animated and loud. Most of the room seemed to ignore them, but on the fringe, a few heads tilted down.

The closest of the four, with electric blue highlights and red lipstick, leaned forward. “You can’t be serious. Did he really?”

“Yeah!” Across the table from her, a girl with green eyes. “And, like. If he hadn’t dressed like that, we’d probably just ignore it. Gross, but unavoidable. The outfit was too blatant though. Almost like he wanted us to say no.”

The third was too small and too hidden, but her hands look perfectly manicured. “It’s frustrating, how common this has become. As if a man in a dress knows how I feel.”

The tips of Michael’s ears burnt like hot lead, and he thought briefly of Jake’s house, collapsing in on itself. Beside him, Jeremy stiffened, but Rich had no reaction.

Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . 

“I heard a clinic was set up a town over,” Green Eyes said. Michael didn’t know why he was still listening to this--why he hadn’t just  _ left _ \--but her voice kept going. “I can’t believe it. I’m worried about dating now, yknow? How can you be sure a she is really a she outside bed? I mean, plenty of women have low voices. I already specified cis girls only on Tinder, but it’s not like a predator will listen to that.” She sighed. “And of course, Tinder won’t take down their profiles if one attacked me, because god forbid they have to acknowledge the inherent danger. Don’t wanna  _ cause a controversy _ , right? So much for ‘me too’.”

A murmur of agreement. Michael closed his eyes.

God he was… so _ very _ angry. He could feel it coursing through him, every muscle pulled tight. A confused, unexpected  _ outrage _ , over something he hadn’t even thought about, something that didn’t seem fucking  _ real _ . 

He wanted,  _ desperately _ , for a confrontation. To go up there and say something. He couldn’t, not with so many people around, but  _ God _ . 

This was the sort of thing you reported to a community leader, right? Yeah. Alright.  _ Calm down, _ just have to… wait for the end. Then he could do something.

The girls kept talking. The fourth, as hidden as Manicure, hadn’t spoken up enough to hear, but the rest of them turned the subject elsewhere, their chirping now cheerful in tone.

10 minutes. Only 10 minutes, and all conversations would be over. They’d sit through the rest of it, and, at the end, he could do something. He had a plan. And, maybe the girls were new. Maybe they’d be dealt with swiftly, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it afterwards. Maybe--

The fourth leaned forward. Her hands were gloved; he hadn’t noticed at the beginning. One went to her face, cupping the side of her mouth, as if to whisper, and yet, she spoke loud enough for the whole room to hear if you listened.

“You know what’s worse than that?” Her voice dripped with excitement, as if salivating for the punchline. “She’s brown! Can you imagine doing something so embarrassing when people already think so lowly of your race? Do you  _ want _ to give racists an excuse?”

 

By the time Michael came back to himself, they were driving home. He pulled safely off to the side, well aware he wasn’t in the right state to drive, and promptly threw up. Two sets of hands held his hair and ran down his back, soothing, as he regurgitated every awful emotion experienced that night. A failure.  _ Oh, well. _


End file.
